Piano Keys
by Nobadi-liek-u
Summary: Music AU. A concert girl who loves to show the world her talent, A boy who must keep his virtuosity a secret, and how the music taught them about who they really are. Agencyshipping.
1. First Movement

**Hello! My name is nobadi-liek-u. This story is an AU - my first attempt at one. Actually, it's my first attempt at writing anything in a long time. I am a classical pianist, and a few months ago I was inspired to write a story based on Pokemon Special about classical music. This is the result!**

 **Be warned that there is a lot of musical terminology used in this story. Because of this, I'm providing a handy glossary at the end of each chapter for any terms that might be unfamiliar to those who don't listen to or play music, as well as links to YouTube for any pieces mentioned so that you can get an idea of what they're supposed to sound like. None of these videos are my own. If there are any terms that I miss that you don't know, DM me and** **I'll add it to the glossary.**

 **I think that's all. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: First Movement**

* * *

White's house is an old one, and it shows. The paint on the outside, a superb white maybe a hundred and fifty years ago, is now faded and peeling. The paint on the interior is also peeling and most likely lead-based, which is no doubt unhealthy. The windows are foggy and spotted. The stairs creak as you walk up and down, and a hot-water heater makes for an interesting obstacle in the basement, burning your skin within seconds should you touch it. And yet, White wouldn't dream of moving out, not for anything in the world.

Why?

Because the sound of the notes leaping from her Steinway and into the living room are so fine, so clear, so pure - that she is certain no room in the world could offer a better place to play.

However, today White finds herself playing not her beautiful Steinway in her lovely old house, but playing a battered, hopeless upright in a busy university lounge. Several students sit watching a Blue Jays game on the television, raising the volume of the none-too-pleasant voice of Buck Martinez calling singles and strikeouts every so often. Two dudebros are using the billiards table, shouting whenever something mildly cool happens and then immediately glancing at White to see if she's impressed. It's almost impossible to hear herself play, but she grits her teeth and tries to tune the noisy students out.

She is rather a stunning sight to see at a piano. She's small, no taller than five and a half feet, but slender, with a curvaceous back and hips. She's wearing her chestnut hair down and it reaches her lower back, flowing like water. Her skin is pale and clear. She has a small, upturned nose, wide blue eyes and and a perpetually excited expression on her face. She sits at the piano with supreme confidence - back straight, head high.

A light, somewhat discordant piece is what White starts to play. It's oddly chromatic in structure, as if every other note is a tone off of what should be played, only to be immediately resolved into the "correct" one. The left hand chords are broken and almost stretch further than her hands can reach. By all musical logic it should sound like a mess, but a whimsical tune emerges as if spitting in the face of the man. The piece is named "Wrong Note". Appropriate.

White is about to lose herself in the music when she hears someone walking up to her left and glances over. One of the guys from the pool table has decided to make his presence even more distracting. She returns her attention to the sheet music.

"Hey, what're you playin' there?" He says, with a goofy grin on his face. He looks like a walking stereotype. He's wearing a backwards ball cap, plaid canvas shorts and skate shoes. A pair of sunglasses are worn above his eyes. He has a Monster Energy drink clutched in one hand, a pool cue in the other. White smirks a little.

"Chopin, Opus 25, Number 5, Étude in E minor," she says, not stopping with her playing. Normally she is very friendly, but she knows how this conversation is going to go.

It is doubtful that the guy knows what half of these words mean, but the grin never wavers from his face. "Oh yeah, I know that one. It's by, uh, Beethoven, right?" (He pronounces so incorrectly that White cringes). "I'm Brad, by the way." Even his name fits the stereotype.

White stops playing and looks over at him with a forced smile. "White. Nice to meet you. I'm sorry if I'm being rude but I really need to pract-"

"Can you play Kanye?" interrupts Brad. "I love Kanye!"

White scowls. "No, I can't play Kanye. Again, it's really important that I practice right now. I'll chat with you later, but could you go away for now?"

Brad looks confused. "Why can't you play Kanye?"

She has lost her patience. "Please leave."

Brad looks upset, but turns and heads back to the pool table. White hears him mutter "it'd be rad if she played Kanye..."

She sighs. This kind of conversation is incredibly common when she plays in public, given her looks and the number of frat boy bro-dawgs at her school. It's one of the reasons why she rarely plays on a piano other than her own - or at a concert hall, of course.

White starts playing again, but only gets through a few bars before she stops again.

Another boy is watching her from an armchair about 15 feet away, from behind a book. Unlike everyone else in the room, he is silent. She looks back at him, wondering how long he has been watching. He is staring, unwavering, but White gets the feeling it's as much at the piano as it is at her. He thrusts his chin, as if to say "Don't stop. Keep playing."

White huffs. Easy for him to say - along with the noise and the jerks, she now has an attentive audience. But it's not like she has any other choice - the piece has to be ready by the end of the month, and she can't go home until classes are over.

She resumes playing again. She can feel his eyes on her, but that doesn't matter. _'He wants a performance? I'll give him one. Leave it all to me.'_

Her playing all of a sudden becomes sharper, crisper. Somehow the out-of-tune piano starts creating a lovely sound. She's a natural performer. An audience just gives her that much more reason to play it perfectly.

She finishes the piece and looks over at him, almost shyly. _'How was I?'_ he waggles his eyebrows comically, as if to say _'gee, I dunno.'_ A giggle escapes White inadvertently. She hasn't even spoken a word to him, but he's already shown more character than all of the bro-dawgs who've ever hit on her.

The boy uses the giggle as a cue to come over. At first White is annoyed - why can't these people just let her play? - but then she shrugs. Maybe this one won't be so bad. He's tall and thinly muscled, with a shock of brown hair and intelligent chocolate eyes. He leans on the piano and gives her a relaxed smile, totally different from to intense stare he was wearing whilst she was playing.

"I don't wanna be rude, but why are you here?" he asks. "There's better places to play."

White giggles again, though she is unsure why. "I can't go and play at home, because I have another class in ten minutes. Trust me, if I had the choice I wouldn't be here." She jerks her chin at Brad none-too-subtly, but Brad has lost interest in her and doesn't notice.

"Ah, I see," he says, a little too loudly. "You have a class this late?" He says this as if it's a travesty that the damned school doesn't lock its doors at 3:30 PM. Right now, the sun is just dipping to the horizon on a chilly October day.

"Yeah, I'm a music student," she laughs. "What are you? I haven't seen you around before."

The boy turns slightly pink. "Engineering...or something," he mumbles. "Freshman." White blinks, bemused. 'Or something?'

"You don't sound convinced," she says with a frown. In the back of her mind, a bizarre thought emerges that he might be a serial killer posing as a student.

"Well, it's definitely engineering," he says. "But...the engineering of what exactly, I dunno. I don't really pay attention."

"Is that not what you want to do?" White asks.

The boy laughs. "Not in the slightest. In fact…" his eyes wander to the clock on the wall. "Dammit! I gotta go." He shoulders his bag and bounces towards the door, before rushing right back.

"I'm Black, by the way," he wheezes, pumping her hand.

White giggles again. He certainly is strange. "Nice to meet you. I'm White."

"I know. I heard you say it to that guy. Bye!" And without another word he takes 3 giant leaps and disappears out the door.

White watches him go, and then looks back at the piano for a moment. It really is time for her to get to class too, but she wants to run through the piece one more time. Her mother's voice appears in her head.

 _"Playing Chopin is like handling a wild animal, White. You must approach it gently and slowly, or it will bite you."_

She takes a deep breath, puts Black out of her head as best as she can, and begins to play again.

* * *

 **Steinway: AKA Steinway and Sons. Piano manufacturer, well regarded as the best creator of concert pianos. They're very expensive, and it's a little unrealistic for White to own one, but it sounds better than "Her K. Kawai" or "Her Yamaha" (which could also be a TV, a Motorcycle or a boat.)**

 **Buck Martinez: The play-by-play guy for the Toronto Blue Jays. (What can i say, I'm a fan). Known for his distinctive baritone growl, and legendary for (allegedly) never being sober in the broadcast booth.**

 **Chromatic: a chromatic musical scale is played using only semi-tones - meaning each note is the very next one up on the keyboard, black or white. Example: watch?v=hrvsooTd8-g**

 **Étude: French for "study." A piece designed to either improve a musician's skill in a particular discipline of technique, or to improve the understanding of a composer's piano method.**

 **Frederic Chopin, Étude in E minor, Opus 25, Number 5: watch?v=TM1BN4uwMfA. You might recognize this piece from the anime _Your Lie in April._ If you don't because you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.**


	2. Mr Ziegler's Neighbourhood

**Chapter 2: Mr. Ziegler's Neighbourhood**

* * *

Black hurries down the street, one eye on his phone clock. He had been about to leave the university, but had been distracted by the girl in the lounge - White. And now he is going to pay for it. He keeps running, although his whole body is protesting, until he reaches his destination.

The house is an unremarkable brick building, like every other on the street, and no one would be likely to notice another unremarkable college student entering it, but Black still makes sure no one is watching before he enters, just in case. "Sorry I'm late, Sir! I got caught up-"

"Never mind that. Go sit down."

His instructor, one Herr Conrad Ziegler, has been standing in the entryway waiting for him, and Black shrinks at the sight of him. Black himself is not short, but Mr. Ziegler towers at least half a foot above him at the age of eighty-one. He speaks with a strong german accent. In all the time Black has spent with him, he has never seen Mr. Ziegler smile, and today his scowl looks even more unhappy than usual. Meekly, Black slinks to the piano and sits. Mr. Ziegler strides briskly in behind him and seats himself in the chair to the left.

"Herr Charbonneau, you get 2 hours of time with me a week. 2 hours of valuable practice time with a serious, professional pianist. That's all. So why do you insist on showing up late time after time?"

That was a trick question. Black keeps his head bowed in shame, only half-feigned. Were he to try to explain himself, Mr. Ziegler would launch into a never-ending tirade against his character and piano playing, and the lesson would end without Black ever touching a key. "I apologize, Mr. Ziegler."

"I should hope so. Now, enough time-wasting please. Some of us actually expect to work at these lessons, you know. Show me your dictation." Black hands over the notebook.

"Show me your scales."

Scales are no problem for Black. He repeats the seven he had been assigned twice, with four octaves each repeat. He plays them loud and aggressive and even. His arpeggios are a similar story, and Mr. Ziegler nods approvingly as he completes each one.

"Well, I can see that you practiced your warm-ups. Well done." He puts a checkmark in the dictation book. "Now, please show me your Beethoven - and God help you if you haven't progressed at all since last week, _Ja_?"

Black takes a deep breath, and begins to play. The piece starts off with a series of fast arpeggios up the length of the keyboard, with a two-step left hand. Fast, loud, and dominating - that is the impression Black (and the composer) attempts to give with the form of this piece. The same thought is going through Black's head, over and over: _'Faster. Louder. Faster. Louder.'_

The piece is seemingly simple enough when looking at the sheet music, but it is in fact brutally difficult. Black has heard stories of pianists breaking their fingers between black keys and never playing again.

 _'Faster louder faster louder fasterlouderfasterlouder-'_

He doesn't get through more than half of the first page before Mr. Ziegler stops him.

"Herr Charbonneau. The hands of most pianists are intricate, delicate tools. Yours are blunt instruments." He shoos Black off the piano bench and takes a seat on it himself. "Your _crescendo_ is not nearly defined enough. You're starting f _orte_ and finishing _fortissimo_ , and you are playing _presto_ when you only need _allegro_. You must create the effect of dominance with tact, or you just end up with this banging, incessant noise. And _bitte_ , quiet down your left hand! It is there to keep time, not to drown out the right." He starts playing the same piece, but it is nearly unrecognizable as the one Black was playing just a moment ago. His arpeggios start off very quiet, but build up to an unbelievable _fortissimo_. The left hand is there, but only just. "Play it _allegro_ , and with a larger dynamic range, or I WILL KILL YOU."

This is standard of Mr. Ziegler's lessons. His teaching style is simple and brutally efficient. When he hears something he doesn't like, he follows the same five steps:

1: Stop the student.

2: Insult the student.

3: Explain to the student.

4: Show the student.

5: Threaten the student.

Mr. Ziegler finishes and gestures to the bench. "Once more."

Black himself is not a patient person. If anyone else were to speak to him in this way, berate him, insult him time and time again, he would either make sure he saw as little of that person as possible, or deck them. But for Mr. Ziegler, he will make an exception, because a little shouting and belittlement is a small price to pay for instruction from one of the world's greatest pianists.

Someday, Black hopes to be counted among that group. It's all he can think about, day and night. But more than that - He wants to be _The World's Greatest Pianist._ That is the ultimate goal. And for that, he needs Ziegler.

Black starts again, and makes it a few measures further into the piece before he is shut down once again. _"Nein, Nein, Nein!"_ No Ziegler lesson ever contained a piece played from start to finish. Mr. Ziegler had once been a concert pianist, famous for never making a mistake - ever. He expected the same from his pupils.

Black manages to get the piece half-satisfactory for Ziegler before the end of the lesson. It is physically grueling, and by the end he is sweating and out of breath, but he doesn't want to stop playing. He has a long way to go.

"I'm going to go back to the University and practice some more there," he says to Mr. Ziegler as he is leaving. It had taken all of Ziegler's efforts to get him off the bench and into the entryway. Ziegler nods.

"And my payment?" He says, unaffected.

Black cringes. "Um…" he withdraws 10 dollars from his wallet and hands it over sheepishly.

Ziegler stares at it. "Where is the rest?"

"I'm...a little short on cash right now, Sir," he mutters.

"Are your parents not working?" asks Ziegler dryly.

Black can't tell him that his parents aren't paying for the lessons - it's all coming out of his own pocket. "I'll try to have it to you by next week."

Mr. Ziegler sighs. "Why bother lying to me? We both know you will not." He is silent for a moment, and then says "Playing in recitals and competitions can earn you scholarships. You should enter some."

Blacks eyes widen. "No, sir, I can't do that!" he practically shouts.

"And why not?"

"I just can't!"

Ziegler sighs. "You make no sense to me, Herr Charbonneau. However, I cannot force you to do what you do not want to." He looks over at his piano. "I do not teach students who I do not believe possess the talent to be great musicians. I teach not for money, but for the future of classical piano playing. I am willing to disregard payment for now, but in the future you shall have to come up with money. I have to eat too."

Black isn't sure, but he thinks he sees a the ghost of a smile creep onto Ziegler's face. "Thank you so much, Sir!" He move to shake the hand of his teacher, but Ziegler pulls it away.

"None of that, please. Be on your way. Practice well."

Black turns to go, but another thought strikes him. "I met a girl today, playing at the university. Do you know of someone named White? Around my age?"

Ziegler frowns. "I think... _Ja_. White Blanchard. She is eighteen, the same as you. I have heard her play, not so long ago. Many people speak highly of her. They call her "The President" because of the way she captures an audience. "

"So she's good?"

Ziegler shrugs. "I suppose, if that rubato pleases you. She will not stop with it until the day she dies. She's hopeless with Bach. She plays Debussy and Chopin well, but she will never excel without Bach and Mozart.

Black tries to remember the piece White was playing in the lounge. "She was playing Chopin when I met her, I think. An étude."

Ziegler nods. "That's her strength, and she capitalizes on it. I expect she's practicing for the Léo Richard Competition next month. Unlike you, she has enough sponsors that she never has to spend a penny on her lessons - although no one should have to pay that _Schweinhund_ Wexler for lessons."

Black had thought that he might be able to leave without Ziegler spitting the name of Elias Wexler, but he just had to go and ask about White. Wexler is the most successful teacher in the area, and Ziegler has no respect for him whatsoever. He always finds some gripe with the man - He played too softly, he played too harshly. he was too arrogant on stage, he had no stage presence at all. He is too kind to his students, he has no patience for his students. Evidently Mr. Wexler hates Mr. Ziegler mutually, and both go to great lengths to snatch up talented young pianists before they fall into each other's hands. Ziegler can go for half an hour condemning the very name of the man, so Black has always tried to avoid mentioning anything that could be associated with him.

Another student of Ziegler's had informed him of why the two men hate each other so passionately. Apparently, both were world-famous concert pianists some 50 years ago, and great rivals. They had disliked each other upon first meeting as unknown amateurs, at a benefit concert in 1960 in New York. Ziegler had played first, and when Wexler's turn came, he played the exact same piece as Ziegler had, rather than the one he had prepared - just for fun, supposedly.

After the concert had finished, the consensus was that Wexler's had been the better performance, which infuriated Ziegler to no end. At the next concert they performed in together, in 1962, Wexler performed first, and Ziegler pulled the same stunt. Wexler had anticipated this, and selected the most difficult piece he could play - Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two. But Ziegler confounded him and performed it nearly flawlessly. The two never spoke to each other once after that, but every concert they played together, one would select an incredibly difficult piece, and the other would copy them.

"But you don't need to concern yourself with _Fräu_ Blanchard or her insufferable teacher. You are not a competitor. Focus on yourself. _Auf Wiedersehen_."

Black bids goodbye to his grumpy teacher and heads back to the university. The sun has retired below the horizon, and he breaks into a run to keep out the cold.

As he runs, he can't help but think about Miss White Blanchard. Ziegler may not think much of her, but Black had heard something special in her music. Especially after she had noticed him - she had taken it up to an even higher level.

"She must be even better in concert. What makes her play better with an audience?" he wonders aloud.

He envies her. Her touch is light and controlled, applying just the right amount of pressure on each note. Her rubato is natural and subtle, whereas whenever he tries to use it, he ends up lilting and pausing and sounding jagged and unnatural. He is good at one thing - Presto e Forte. Undoubtedly she is the better pianist - and that bothers him.

 _'I want to be the greatest pianist on earth - she's in my way.'_

However, he doesn't feel anger. Mr. Ziegler clearly saw the potential in him to be one of the greats, and saw nothing in Miss Blanchard.

"She may be "The President" now, but I'll be the champion soon enough."

* * *

Arpeggio: a four-note pattern using the first, third, fifth and eighth notes of a major or minor scale.

Forte, Fortissimo: Italian for "Loud" and "Very Loud" respectively (Most piano notation is written in Italian.) Piano and Pianissimo are the opposite - quietly and very quietly.

Allegro, Presto: Italian for "Fast" and "very, very fast" respectively. Any other non-english words used by Mr. Ziegler are German.

Crescendo: Finishing a phrase louder than it was started. Decrescendo is the opposite - finishing a phrase quieter than it was started.

Rubato: Italian for "Stolen Time", _tempo rubato_ means disregarding a strict tempo in favor or expressiveness, allowing for musicians to speed up and slow down passages as they please. It is commonly used in the works of Romantic pianists like Chopin and Debussy, but should not be used when playing the works of Baroque composers like Bach, which is what Ziegler means by White being "Hopeless at Bach". White has natural rubato and has trouble keeping it out of her playing, so she struggles with Bach.

Ludwig Van Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 14 (Opus 27 No. 2) "Moonlight Sonata/Quasi Una Fantasia", 3rd movement:  watch?v=zucBfXpCA6s You've probably heard the first movement of this piece, but the third movement is my favorite. It's much more difficult and just sounds great.

Franz Liszt, Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 in C Sharp Minor:  watch?v=LdH1hSWGFGU This piece is legendary for its difficulty, as are many of Liszt's pieces.


	3. Chance Meetings

**Chapter 3: Chance Meetings**

* * *

"I'm home," calls White, tossing her bag in the closet. No response. "Helllooooo?" She pauses and cocks her head. "Dad?" Usually her father greets her at the door with a hug and a glass of lemonade, but today he is nowhere in sight.

Entering the kitchen, White finds a pink Post-It note next to a pitcher of lemonade.

 _"Baby,_

 _Working late. Lamb chops in the fridge - your favorite :) Grandma will be over to check on you around 8:00._

 _PRACTICE!_

 _Xoxo Dad"_

White frowns, vaguely remembering her father mentioning that he would be gone tonight. And she is eighteen, for crying out loud - she doesn't need her grandmother to make sure she hasn't burned down the house.

White sighs. She loves her father, but his devotion to her verges on overprotection, ever since what happened to her mother. It was no one's fault, but White's father still blames himself, and is determined to keep White safe, even if it means never letting her out from under his wing.

Practicing is not what White feels like doing at the moment, so she quickly eats dinner and heads up to her room. As she is about to flop onto the bed, her phone vibrates.

BIANCA: saw u talking 2 black in lounge. u know him?

Bianca Rizzuto finds nothing more interesting than White's social life. A flutist and a bit of a ditz, White considers her one of her closer friends at the university. Bianca is not an especially proficient musician, but she plays with so much fire and passion that she passed the entry audition for the school despite making several mistakes in a fairly easy piece. She had sort of latched onto White early in the semester and brow-beaten her into a friendship. White had found her squealing and gossip annoying early on, but the girl's cheerful attitude had become a welcome relief in difficult times.

White is somewhat surprised by the text.

WHITE: I just met him there. We talked for like 5 minutes and then he ran away lol

WHITE: You know him?

BIANCA: omg he's been my friend since forever

BIANCA: he was probably late 4 something, if he ran away

BIANCA: unless u scared him off :P

WHITE: He was watching me practice.

BIANCA: do u think hes cute?

White turns red. This is classic Bianca - always trying to set her up with boys. White has never been particularly interested in relationships, partly because she is always focused on music, and partly because rarely has a boy caught her fancy.

WHITE: Seriously Bianca I just met the guy.

BIANCA: u guys would b so great together 3

The best thing to do when Bianca puts her in this situation is to just put the phone down and stop answering, and that's what White does. Instead, she opens her bag to find her theory book. White always found theory relaxing - it came easily to her, and memorizing cadences and dominant sevenths was very soothing.

The bag contains all her sheet music, writing notebooks, laptop - but no theory book. Puzzled, she goes down to the piano to see if she left it there, then to kitchen. No theory book.

White groans. She must have left it at school, in the lecture room. She considers just staying home and not going to get it, but it's Friday and Professor Cilan locks the room over the weekend. If she wants her book, she has to get it fast.

Muttering profanities under her breath, she puts her coat back on and jogs out to her old Honda. Her father is terrified every time she leaves the house in it - the fan belt is shot, the engine stalls and she's not sure if there's actually an airbag inside anymore - but she won't let him buy her a new one. That money could be better spent.

White gets the engine to start on the third attempt, and starts the short drive to the university, singing softly along with the radio.

She thinks about the Léo Richard competition. _'Who's going to be there?'_ Those evil Nakada twins, Mineko and Matsuo, for sure - Snarky kids who could not keep themselves from giggling and groaning and rolling their eyes at their competitor's performances. White's knuckles go white around the wheel at the very thought of them.

Michael "Gold" Fingers is another one who's certain to be there. He's a local competitor who, for some strange reason, names Pierre Boulez as his favorite composer. His nickname comes from an adjudicator who listened to him play once and declared his hands "so heavy it's like they're made of gold." White sees Gold from time to time at the University. He's a good pianist, but very immature; if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was a thirteen-year-old, not a college junior. White is good friends with his girlfriend, Crystal, and she always has horror stories to tell about the guy. He would probably play a Boulez sonata again this year, and no one would like it but everyone would respect it.

A kid from Poland showed up last year as well. He never spoke a word, but won the competition easily, with a flawless Mozart. No one knew how to pronounce his name, and the rest of the performers had taken to calling him Silent Pavelski.

Apart from them, no competitors last year stand out in White's mind. She had taken third place previously with a 91%, behind Mineko Nakada's 92% and Silent Pavelski's 95%. She had been ill in the weeks before the competition, and couldn't practice as much as she should have. If she practiced hard enough, got every last detail in her étude perfectly, she knew she could beat them this year. Mineko had coasted into second place on her ridiculous natural talent, admitting to White that she hadn't really practiced all that much, and White suspected that the story would be the same this year. All she had to do was outwork her. Silent Pavelski was incredibly good, but White knew she was just as good, if not better. Besides, no one knew if he was even competing this year.

White pulls up to the university's music building within ten minutes. Formally known as Anderson Hall, it is referred to colloquially as "The Orb" due to its shape. It is very new, and the acoustics are gorgeous in the concert hall.

A few students are still milling about, but the building is more or less deserted. White hurries down the hallway to the lecture hall, hoping to be back home as quick as possible, but it is not to be. Cheren Kovachik more or less punches her in the stomach as she runs by. He hasn't done it on purpose - he was just trying to stop her - but he doesn't seem to notice her pain.

"Slow down, White," he says evenly. "You're gonna kill someone running like that. Where are you going?"

Cheren is a cellist, and also Bianca's boyfriend. He is known for his composure while performing, and his technique is essentially flawless. He has received invitations to play in multiple famous orchestras, though he has turned them all down. He says it's because he prefers performing as a soloist or in a quartet, but White suspects it's because he doesn't want to leave Bianca behind.

He has spiky black hair and is skinnier than anyone White has ever known. His deep blue eyes peer out from behind a pair of oddly-shaped glasses (Bianca once told White that he is practically blind without them). He can be quite cold to strangers, but he treats Bianca very well and she is completely in love with him. He had been starting to warm up to White lately, and she knows he is a good person. Still, punching someone (even accidentally) and then not apologizing is something she would classify as a "dick move".

The running combined with the sudden hit to her gut leaves White gasping for breath. "Theory...book...lecture hall…" she manages to wheeze.

"White Blanchard, forgetting something of hers?" Cheren is clearly amused. "I never thought I'd see the day. Well, your book won't be there. Professor Cilan is long gone and the door is locked. He usually takes anything left behind down to the practice rooms over the weekend, so students can get it if they need."

White groans. The practice rooms are in the opposite direction. Cheren has realized that he hurt her with that stiff-arm, and seems to feel badly about it.

"I can walk with you, if you like," he offers. "I was just about to leave anyways, so it's on my way."

After White has recovered, she agrees and the two set off in the direction she came from.

"So...I heard you met Black," says Cheren.

"Ugh. Did Bianca tell you?"

"What do you think?"

White groans. Bianca has probably told everyone and their mother that she and Black are dating and totally in love.

The smirk on Cheren's face is massive. "Don't feel too badly. No one believes most of what she says anyways. And...you guys would be cute together."

White shoves him, hard. "I met him today and we talked for like five minutes, Cheren. Anyways, I can't handle a relationship with anyone right now. With the competition and all, and I have theory to memorize and studies to learn…"

Cheren is silent for a moment. "You know, there is life after music. If you don't live that, you aren't living your whole life. Think about that."

They reach the practice rooms. "Which one is it?" asks White.

"I don't know. They're all unlocked - check and see," replies Cheren. With that, he bids goodbye and is gone. That boy could be infuriating sometimes.

The practice rooms are probably White's favorite place in the building. They are equipped with dozens of instruments, including a full-size grand piano. They also have computers with recording software and audio workstations. White books as many hours as she can in the rooms - and so, it seems, does every other student in the school, because she only got two this week. Even now, she can hear faintly hear someone inside practicing on the piano - which is odd, because the room is supposed to be completely soundproof.

Musicians hate to be disturbed when practicing, and she knows whoever is in there won't be happy with her, but she needs the book. She slowly turns the doorknob, so as not to alert the player inside, and pauses. She knows the piece well - Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, 3rd movement - but whoever is playing it seems to be a total maniac. For one, it is already a fast piece, but he or she is taking it basically prestissimo - about 50% faster than it is meant to be played. It is also being at an incredible fortissimo, with little regard for dynamic marking. This isn't a bad thing for White - maybe she can sneak in without them hearing her.

White tiptoes her way into the room and and freezes. There, at the piano, fingers and arms flailing about like an absolute madman, sits Black. White can only stand there with her mouth agape. Why hadn't Bianca and Cheren told her about this? And hadn't he said he was an engineering student? She has so many questions, but she will not disturb him while he is playing. Instead she watches him, appraisingly.

She can see right away that he has little care for proper technique. His fingering makes no logical sense, his hands contort and take all sorts of weird shape, and his elbows fly way out to the side like cudgels frequently. However, he is controlled and steady in his tempo, and he isn't missing any notes at all. White is amazed. This piece, at this speed, with such poor technique - it should be impossible for him to play it. But here he is.

Suddenly he lets out a yelp and clutches his right hand. White knows instantly what happened: He caught a finger between two black keys. It's happened to her once or twice, and she remembers the pain. She says "Oh my gosh, are you okay?" before she can stop herself.

Black swivels around in surprise. "Oh...hello. Yeah, I'm fine." he holds up his hand and inspects it. "What...what are you doing here?"

* * *

 **Cadence: a sequence of notes or chords comprising the close of a musical phrase.**

 **Dominant 7th: a chord composed of a root, major third, perfect fifth, and minor seventh.**

 **Pierre Boulez: This piece should explain everything said about Pierre Boulez in this chapter:** **watch?v=HXJWHG_6KAI**


	4. Secrets and Feelings

**Chapter 4: Secrets and Feelings**

* * *

"Oh...hello. Yeah, I'm fine. What...What are you doing here?" Is what Black says. What he is actually thinking is 'OW OW OWOWOWOW MY FRIKKIN' FINGER JESUS CHRIST OW' And also 'Devil woman what are you doing you aren't supposed to know about this yet go away now' But he keeps his composure and puts on a smile.

"I left my book in the lecture hall, and I was told it'd be in here. But never mind that! You told me you were an engineering student. Where'd you learn to play like that?" The girl gushes.

Black sighs. There's no use in keeping secrets. It's not like she's going to tell anyone he doesn't want to find out. "I am an engineering student. But remember when you asked if that was what I wanted to do? This...this is what I want."

White is quiet for a second. "But why are you an engineering student?" She comes over and stands beside him. "That was insane! I mean, yeah, your technique needs work. And you could do with a bigger dynamic range, but come on! That was quicker than I've ever seen anyone play that piece. If you entered competitions you could -"

"I can't enter competitions," Black says simply.

White blinks. "Why not?"

"My parents can't know about this. I don't even tell my friends. Other than my teacher, you're the only person who knows."

White grabs a chair and sits down beside him. Normally he would be furious that someone interrupted his practicing, but for some reason he doesn't mind this time. In the back of his head, he's thinking that maybe befriending Miss Blanchard instead of demonizing her isn't the worst idea in the world. It might give him some insight into what makes a pianist better - and anyways, she's friendly and (he has to admit) sort of pretty, and pretty girls are one of his more pronounced weaknesses.

White says, "Why can't your parents find out? You have serious talent!"

Black remembers the words of his mother.

"Look at those idiots with their guitars," she scoffs as they pass a billboard with a concert advertisement on it. It shows two young men, holding up their instruments and smiling."Why can't they get a real job? Music is a waste of time and effort."

"You said it," agrees his father. "For every musician who makes it big, there's another million who never make a penny. Black, tell me you're never going to be a musician."

"Musicians aren't exactly revered in my house. My parents think it's pointless. They want me to get a 'real job', whatever that means. So I told them I wanted to be an engineer and that was that, I guess." He makes no effort to hide the bitterness in his voice.

White nods slowly. "But that doesn't explain where you learned to play."

"I taught myself."

White scoffs. "No way. That level of skill doesn't just come naturally. You had to have had a teacher."

"Not until high school. I taught myself all the basics and theory and stuff. When I was a kid, I would go to the school music room at recess, and that's where I learned. I got a job in 9th grade, and started paying for my own lessons." He chuckles. "My parents think I'm going to the library after school, but really I'm here, or at Mr. Ziegler's place."

"They're going to find out eventually. You know, when you have to admit that you've learned nothing about engineering and flunk out at the end of the semester."

She has a point there. Maybe he should start going to more classes, and paying attention in the ones he actually does go to.

A silence ensues. Finally, Black says "I heard about you from Mr. Ziegler today."

White looks surprised. "Really? Why were you talking about me? What'd he say?"

"I just mentioned that I had met a girl named White who played the piano, and he knew the name. He says you can't play Bach." Black says, grinning. He doesn't mention Ziegler's praise, just for fun.

White quivers in anger. "I can so! Anyways, what does it matter what that old weirdo thinks? Mr. Wexler calls him a 'musical moron.'"

"That's funny. Mr. Ziegler says the same thing about Mr. Wexler."

White huffs. "Whatever."

"Well, not in those words. It's usually more along the lines of "Zat Vexler is an oafish schweinhund who vouldn't know talent if it bit him in der hodensack!"

Black's poor impression of the revered teacher make White laugh out loud. Instantly, her face brightens again and she flashes a dazzling smile at Black. "Anyways, it looks like both of them have students with talent, unlike Mr. Wexler says. Show me that Moonlight again - if your finger is okay, that is." She looks at the finger in question again. It doesn't seem to be swelling or crooked, and the pain has subsided. Black nods, and thinks about what White had said: "your technique needs work. And you could do with a bigger dynamic range." With that in mind, he starts to play again.

The first few lines go well. Black manages to start each arpeggio quietly, and builds up to an appropriate volume. He plays fast, but not too fast, and makes a conscious effort to use the correct fingering. He is surprised to find how good the sound coming from his hands is. 'This is good. I can keep this up.'

Of course, he can't. As the measures continue, he begins to panic. His playing gets faster and louder with each passing measure, until he is going as fast as he physically can. His fingering becomes random and chaotic. Eventually it all just melds together into a blurry mess. The music is no longer so pretty.

White looks on, entranced. She is not enjoying the sound of the piano, Black can tell. It's more that she is blown away by the raw skill he is showing. His playing is not good - but it certainly is impressive. When he stops playing, she claps enthusiastically.

Black is suspicious immediately. "Don't tell me you actually enjoyed that," He complains. "It was garbage."

White giggles. "No, you're right. It sucked. But you don't suck. Those first few lines? Those were amazing. You're amazing!"

Black blushes. "Thanks, I guess." White realizes what she has just said, and turns red as well.

To break the awkward silence that follows, Black says "You, know, Mr. Ziegler didn't just say you couldn't play Bach. He complimented your Chopin and Debussy." he smiles. "He told me about your nickname, too."

White let out a half-groan, half squeak. "Oh man. I hate that nickname. Please don't call me "President" or anything stupid like that."

"Okay, Prez." He jumps to the left to avoid her shove. "What? I think it suits you! Why don't you like it?"

" It seems so rigid, and ugly. I want one that sounds prettier. Like… 'The Dreamer'." a half-smile forms on her lips. "Yeah. The Dreamer. I like that one."

Black scratches his head. She is something of an...eccentric. But then so is he, he supposes.

White pushes him off the bench. "And I can so play Bach! Watch!"

She starts playing the famous Prelude in C major, and immediately Black can see what Ziegler meant. The piece is usually played slow and steady, but White is fluctuating her tempo, ever so subtly, measure by measure - this one speeds up, that one slows down. This is the rubato which his teacher had mentioned. She is also not following the proper notation, adding small ornamentations like trills, octaves rather than single notes, and short, quick chromatic runs. It is very pretty, but to classically trained ears it isn't correct. Bach and other baroque composers are supposed to be played strictly in time, and only very slight rubato is tolerated, according to any musical authority you please. Music without rubato would be so metronomic and mechanical as to be unlistenable, but only the barest necessities are allowed in a piece like this. A competition adjudicator would be shocked at this brazen disregard for the maestro's instruction.

She finishes and looks smugly over at Black. "Toldja."

Black shakes his head, grinning. "Bach in the style of Chopin. I think that's what Mr. Ziegler meant when he said you couldn't play Bach."

White tries to shove him again, but Black raises his hands in self-defense. "That doesn't mean I didn't like it! It was really good. It's just...not Bach."

White huffs. "You're not one of those stuffy jerks who thinks there's a "right way" to play everything, are you?"

"Well...not exactly. But if you play Bach like that in any competition, you'll probably cause a few heart attacks. That's all I'll say."

She flips her hair in irritation. "Who cares what all those old goats at the conservatory think? Everyone should play what feels right in their own heart." She pauses. "Is that cheesy?"

"Maybe a little," Black admits. "But I think you're right." He cocks his head at her. "Aren't you a competitive player, though? Why compete if you aren't trying to win?" He genuinely can't picture someone playing in a competition for fun - though maybe that's just the product of his mindset.

"Of course I'm trying to win," White says exasperatedly. "Finding that balance between how you want to play, how the judges want you to play, and how you're able to play - That's the biggest challenge of all, in my opinion." She has a wistful look on her face. "And if I don't find it - then all I want is for the people listening to feel what I feel when I'm playing. I think sharing your music is the best part of being a musician."

Black isn't entirely sure how to respond. "I guess I wouldn't know," he says quietly. "I've never had an audience."

"Of course you have. You just played for me, didn't you?" She replies.

"Yeah, but that doesn't really count," he mutters. "One person, versus a huge crowd like when you play."

White rolls her eyes. "That is, without question, the dumbest thing anyone has ever said. The size of the audience doesn't matter. It's the way the music connects our emotions. Everyone in the room, whether it's two people or two thousand people, feeling the same powerful emotion - that's what I strive for when I play the piano." There's a twinkle in her eye when she looks at him. "People connecting like that, no matter their background, through my music - that's the greatest gift an audience can give me," she says softly. "So, when you were playing, what were you feeling?"

Black thinks hard about it. "I don't know," he says finally. "I guess I've never really thought about it that way. What am I supposed to feel?"

"Well, that's up to you. Isn't it?" she answers. "But I felt something - some powerful emotion."

Black waits. "And…"

"I don't know what it is. It's your job as the performer to find out," she says, in a manner that suggests that she does in fact know.

"Let me show you," she says, and at once starts a different piece. This one is slow, largo. It's an easy piece; a left hand played with repeated chords, changing every few bars. Maybe three notes every measure in the right hand; a B, then a C, B, C, B, down to B flat and then A, B flat, and so on. White exaggerates her usual rubato even more, to the point of almost stopping at the end of each phrase.

At once, Black's mind stops just hearing the notes and begins hearing the emotion as well. A sense of overwhelming despair floods over him; It sounds as if the piano is softly crying over some horrible loss, suffocating in melancholy. However, underlying the sadness is something else: Hope, determination. "It will be okay. I'll make it turn out alright."

Black watches her hands in fascination. How is it possible to convey such emotions through a simple tune? What magic is this girl playing with?

Black can only say "Wow." when she finishes. It's only then that he notices the tears in her eyes which spawned from the piece. "Are you okay?"

She gives him a smile, though her eyes a rimmed in red. "...Yeah. I'm fine." She gazes at her hands, her magical fingers. "It was my mother's favorite piece. She was so happy when I learned to play it…"

Black has no idea what to say about this. He wants to compliment the beautiful playing, but would it be insensitive to mention it? He just says "I'm sorry."

White wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's okay," she whispers, though it seems like she is saying it more to herself than him. "I'm fine." She takes a deep breath. "Anyways. Do you see what I mean?"

Black nods slowly. "I felt like I was never going to be happy again," He says. "...Is that what you wanted?"

White smiles, sadly. "Yes. That's the emotion I was playing with. That terrible, never-ending sadness. That's what I felt the day…" she trails off. "The day we lost her. A part of that feeling is still with me, and it's never going to leave." She smiles again, and it's brighter and happier this time. "But if I can use that feeling to play her favorite piece, I can't think of any better way to honor her, and to keep her with me."

They sit in silence for a few moments. It is interrupted by the chiming of the clock on the wall - 8:00.

White jumps. "Oh no! I have to get back home," she yelps. She wipes her eyes one more time and shoulders her bag. "Dad's gonna kill me…"

"Yeah, that means my practice time is over. I was just getting started, too…" Black plays a little improvised riff wistfully before standing. His phone vibrates.

BIANCA: saw u talking 2 White in lounge

Black groans.

"What's wrong?" says White, looking over.

"Nothing. A friend of mine is being herself." He is about to put the phone back in his pocket, but White snatches it out of his hand.

"Ha! She sent me the exact same thing," she laughs.

Black is surprised. "You know her? Well, of course you do, she knows everyone, but you text her and stuff?"

"She's like, the closest friend I have here," White replies. "I said the same thing to her, about how she knew you. Just don't answer and she'll give it up."

"I know that," grumbles Black. "Gimme my phone back." He doesn't like other people looking at his stuff.

"Touchy," she smirks, but gives the phone back to him. "I gotta go! Remember - feeling! Emotion!" and she departs with a flourish and a wave of her hand.

Black watches her go, then returns his attention to his phone. He sends to Bianca:

BLACK: Yeah she told me you know her

He is about to close the messenger app when something catches his eye. A little red "1" above the Contacts buttons. He checks it.

ONE NEW CONTACT: White Blanchard

She must have added herself when she had swiped his phone. Black shakes his head, smiling. Her words repeat over and over in his head:

"Remember - feeling! Emotion!"

"People connecting like that, no matter their background, through my music - that's the greatest gift an audience can give me."

"When you were playing, what were you feeling?"

Black looks over at the piano, wishing he had just five more minutes to practice. But his use of the room is a privilege, not a right. His agreement with professor Cilan made that clear. So he packs up his music, covers the keys, and exits the room.

* * *

Johann Sebastian Bach, Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C major, BWV 846:  watch?v=0KQW2YnCUrE The way it's "meant" to be played. White's version would be virtually unrecognizable.

Frederic Chopin, Prelude in E minor, Opus 28 No. 4:  watch?v=TagYitwkn7o This is the piece that White plays while demonstrating to Black what she means about using emotions. I don't particularly like this recording, but it's the most true-to-form one I can find. Imagine White's version being a bit slower, and a lot softer.


	5. The Way Home

**Chapter 5: The Way Home**

* * *

White's car has decided that its true calling in life is to be a barbecue. White guides it over to the side of the road, completely unable to see through the smoke coming out from under the bonnet. "Not again!" She wails hopelessly.

She exits into the chilly night and, after a few minutes of struggling, opens the temperamental bonnet. Combining the facts that a) White knows nothing about cars and b) the engine is such a wreck that at least one part is guaranteed not to be working at any given moment, it's impossible to pinpoint what the problem is. To make matters worse, her phone begins to vibrate in her pocket again.

DAD: WHERE ARE YOU?

Her grandmother will have notified Mr. Blanchard that White is missing, and he will be frantic. Rather than text, she calls him.

"I had to get my theory book from school, I left it in the classroom," she says as soon as he picks up. "I forgot to leave a note, I guess."

"Damn right you did! You had me so worried. Are you on your way home now?" her father almost growls. It's a tone that sounds scary if you don't know Mr. Blanchard - or if you aren't actually seeing him as he speaks. It means he's terrified, not angry.

"Well, actually…" She fills him in on the details of what's happened to her "car". There's a pause, then a loud sigh from her father.

"O-one of these days that abomination is going to get you killed. Hopefully it's dead for good this time, so you'll let me buy you a new one. Where are you? I'll come and pick you up."

"I'm only a few blocks from home. I can leave the car here and walk," She replies. "And I wouldn't get your hopes up about buying a new one." The car, no matter how bad it is, never quite quits entirely.

"Be careful - stay on the s-sidewalk," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, dad."

"And don't talk to strang-"

She hangs up on him and sighs softly. Again, her father has forgotten that she is eighteen, not eight.

Emile Blanchard was once a well-adjusted man, years ago. he was of medium build and height, but carried himself with the utmost pride and confidence. He had married White's mother, Selene, straight out of high school, having won her over with his attitude and poise. He became a great businessman, famous for his negotiating skills - they said he never let a deal fall through.

That is, until Selene died. Because something inside of the man broke at the death of his wife. He transformed into a wreck, prone to anxiety attacks. He has acquired a slight stammer, and can barely sit through a day at work without panicking. His negotiation has become pointless, and eventually someone took his job and he was demoted to a desk job, barely able to pay the bills. Emile has become a shell of his old self, and (White hates to admit) a bit of a coward.

 _'This isn't the man my mother married.'_ White thinks to herself. _'If she saw the way he is now...'_

White is jarred out of her thoughts by a raindrop hitting the tip of her nose. And then another. And suddenly, the clouds burst open. White is almost instantly drenched.

"ARGH! WHY?" She yells to the heavens. "WHAT'D I DO TO DESERVE THIS?"

She idly remembers the countless movies she'd seen with the "kiss in the rain" cliché. What a bunch of junk. The last thing she is thinking of outside in the pouring rain is romance. How can you kiss someone, let alone even talk to them, without being distracted by the cold water running down your face? Ridiculous. A clear night, under the light of a full moon - that's much more romantic, she thinks. not that she's ever actually kissed anyone. That's just how she would want it to be.

All she can do is start sprinting towards home, thankful she wore her Nikes today. They are soaked through, but they still do their job. She covers the two blocks to her home quicker than - well, quicker than anyone else has ever run two blocks, she assumes.

Her grandmother's car is parked in the driveway, and White smiles to herself. She may have been annoyed that her father insisted on having Grandma check on her, but she finds consolation in the fact that Grandma is totally awesome. (The car is a heavily modified Toyota Supra.)

Grandma Blanchard is something of a hybrid between the classic sweater knitting, cookie baking grandmother and The World's Interesting Man from those beer commercials. She is nearing eighty, but is still sprightly and active, and bounces around like an excited child whenever she moves. Among other things, she enjoys bingo, tea, Antiques Roadshow, hip-hop, paintball and ice hockey.

White opens the front door and is greeted by DMX's "X gon' give it to ya" at full volume, and the vague scent of skunk. Doing her best to ignore the fact that she is literally creating a puddle on the floor, she kicks off her shoes and enters the kitchen. Grandma is pulling two trays of cookies out of the oven,and notices her as she comes in.

"Hi, honey! Where ya been?" She shouts over the music. "You're soaked!"

"Long story!" White reaches for a cookie. Grandma turns down the music.

"Whoops! Not one of those. Other tray. Those ones are Grandma's special cookies." she cackles. "I wouldn't mind, but I don't think your father would be too pleased!" White grins. Her dad is going to have a fit once he gets home and catches a whiff. 'His own fault.' Don't put the world's most interesting woman in charge of your daughter if her safety is your priority. White takes a cookie from the "clean" tray.

"You should go have a bath! Nothin' better if you get caught in the rain!"

White is all too happy to oblige. A hot bath sounds perfect after the traumatic ordeal she's just been through. "Good idea. I will!"

She takes the stairs two at a time up to the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on every surface she touches.

She runs the bathwater as hot as it will go and strips quickly. As she removes her undergarments, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror - good god. Her beautiful brown locks, which she takes such meticulous care of, have morphed into some terrifying, scraggly, tangled hair-monster. Her body is not just damp from her clothes but actually dripping with rainwater. What is even more frustrating is that the rain has now stopped completely. The ten minutes which she had been outside just happened to be the ten minutes during which the floodgates of heaven had opened. How cartoonishly infuriating.

However, as soon as she slips into the tub, the anger is replaced by relief, and she lets out an involuntary sound of pure pleasure. The consequences of the far-too-hot water on her skin were outweighed by the instant gratification of it.

She will regret it tomorrow. But then again, she's never been the type to worry about tomorrow.

Her thoughts turn to what had happened earlier in the evening. Black.

"It's unreal. Absolutely unreal." And it is. That amount of skill is already an anomaly. But to have taught yourself? And to not be able to play in competitions, even though that's your only ambition? It's like something out of a storybook.

She makes a resolution right here: She is going to find out about this mysterious boy with the flying fingers. And she is going to find a way for him to perform. She isn't really sure why she wants to help this guy, who she met literally 6 hours ago, or why she has already shared so much of herself with him already. But White's mind is made up.

Before that, though, she's going to stay in the bath until she's as wrinkled as her grandmother.

White hugs her knees to her chest and sighs happily. "I wonder what he does at home, if he has no piano…"

* * *

The expression "A house is not a home" fits Black's own abode to a tee. It's easy to see why he spends as little time here as possible.

Black's house is a large, grey brick number in the north of town. His mother had bought it, 10 years ago, because she liked the "empty, quiet atmosphere" of both the house itself and the neighbourhood it was located. (Mr. Charbonneau had no input on the matter.) Inside, every surface is spotless, and the blinds of the windows are always closed. The kitchen is completely devoid of junk food or alcohol - his mother doesn't drink anything other than water. On the main floor, there is hardly any decoration at all - no art on the walls, no trinkets on the mantle. The walls are all beige or white. There are no pets, no stereos, and no piano. There are books, but they are all either medical tomes or science magazines. His steps echo as he enters the front door.

"I'm back," he calls, kicking off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the hall on purpose. Small acts of rebellion.

"Come here," comes the sharp voice of his mother from the living room, in a tone which would suggest she was less than pleased. Slinging his bag to the side, Black enters.

Catherine Charbonneau, a respected microbiologist, sits in a hard-backed chair, reading a science journal. She is around 50, but her hair is still jet-black and straight, tied into tight bun. She wears small spectacles, and is never seen outside of the lab without her trademark blue-and-red business suit - the only bit of color she seems to allow on anything she owns.

She peers over the top of the journal at Black, never quite making eye contact but looking him up and down, appraising - as if he were some germ that had appeared under her microscope. "Just where have you been, young man? It's nearly 8:30," she says.

Black scratches his head. "Just...out with Cheren and Bianca," he says carefully. "We went to the movies."

"And you didn't think to call or text? Black, you will be the death of me. "She takes off her glasses to polish them. "And why are you going to the movies? Waste of time, time you could be spending studying. Not to mention, going with those two."

Cheren and Bianca had once been regulars at the Charbonneau household, when Black was very small. They had all lived on the same street. As the two grew and expressed their interest in music, Mrs. Charbonneau eventually stopped allowing them into the house, and urged Black to stop spending time with them.

"Why can't you find some new friends? Ones with proper ambitions, goals," Mrs. Charbonneau says, peevishly. "Not these foolish...musicians." She says the word in the same way most people would say "manure".

Black clenches his fists. "I don't want new friends," he mutters. "At least I have some - unlike you."

"Don't take that tone with me, young man!

"You may go - Study! No TV!"

Black immediately goes to his room, where he will most definitely not study, Instead, he plays computer games for the rest of the night, and daydreams about passages and phrases. Chopin and Bach. Imagining what it's like to perform, and having an audience hanging onto your every note. And in the back of his mind, the odd girl who'd watched him play, and shared her music with him.

"What must it be like to be free?"

* * *

 **This chapter took way too long to write, and I'm sorry about that. I hated writing it. It took a few reviews and people telling me not to stop there to finally get my butt in gear. The pacing is bad, and the characters are exaggerated. I tried to turn the focus away from the piano playing for a bit, but it kind of just left me with nothing to write about. I haven** ' **t developed the alternate characterizations enough yet, so it all just feels exaggerated and fake to me, at least. Let me know if you feel the same way.**

 **Updates aren't likely to be as quick as the first four from now on, as well. It;s a common occurrence for me to burn out by not pacing myself, uploading my whole buffer and then hitting Writer's Block and taking 3 weeks to recover. I'm not saying it'll be months between updates, but I'm going to try and hold myself back with the updates from now on, so it won't be every few days like before.**

 **On the bright side, no terms and definitions to write, so that's cool I guess :)**

 **And remember, More Reviews = More motivation = more inspiration = faster and better writing = quicker updates. If you like it, Review!**


	6. Before the Storm

**Hey look an chapter**

* * *

Chapter 6: Before the Storm

The next day is Saturday, and though Black had planned on sleeping in, he is instead woken up before sunrise by his phone vibrating off the bedside table. He grumbles and reaches down for the phone.

 _'What kind of madman is up and texting so early-'_

WHITE BLANCHARD: Meet me at my house at 5 tonight. And don't be late or I'll smack you!

Black sits up, bemused. This girl, whom he had met yesterday, is inviting him to her house - ordering him to her house, judging by the tone of the message. She hadn't even said "if you're free" or something along those lines.

It takes him a moment to formulate a reply.

BLACK: this sounds like a trap

WHITE: Whaaaat no way ;p

Well, that's reassuring. Maybe Black would have bought it without the winky face. But at the same time, he's curious and maybe a little bit excited. Maybe this is a trap worth falling into.

BLACK: How do I know I can trust you, Prez

WHITE: Stop calling me that or else :I

Black can almost feel her blushing over the nickname.

BLACK: fine fine...White

WHITE: Better

WHITE: I'm sending the address now. And don't worry, it's really not a trap. You're gonna love it

BLACK: If I agree, I don't suppose you'll tell me what we're doing?

WHITE: You catch on fast. I like that in a boy :p it's a surprise

The obvious flirtation in this message causes Black to finally give in. He is a teenage boy, after all. (Unbeknownst to him, White had done it in order to coax him in, and he'd played right into her hand).

BLACK: Alright alright I'll come

WHITE: I knew you would!

The address she sends him is not far from his own house, which suits Black just fine. Last night's rain has carried on till the morning, and a quick check of the forecast shows no signs of it letting up.

Black wrinkles his nose. He isn't fond of rain.

However, the feeling doesn't last long. An inexplicable giddiness has started to bubble in his chest. No longer tired, he hops out of bed with a goofy grin on his face, pumping his fist a little. Today has the potential to be one of his best days in a while.

...He just has to lie to his parents about it. Again.

Black sits back down on the bed, grimacing. He hates - hates - lying. Lying is a breach of trust. Lying is a sign of disrespect. Lying is cowardly and despicable. And yet he must, or…

 _"Or what? They'll disown me?... Kick me to the curb without a penny to my name? They're my parents, they wouldn't do that over something like this...and if they did...Would that even be a bad thing? It's not like I'm happy here anyways. I have friends who could help me out…But I can't go to college if they kick me out, and that means no practice rooms…What I'm doing right now is working just fine, even if I have to be dishonest…_

 _"Piano comes first. Over myself and everyone else. Right?_

For the first time, Black feels slightly uneasy over this personal motto that he's adopted. Becoming the best no matter what has always been something he has believed in, but the thought of sacrificing his integrity for it makes him feel ill. And right there, he decides something he wouldn't have ever considered just yesterday:

 _"I have to tell them. Otherwise I am worthless._

 _...not yet, though."_

Black's phone vibrates again:

WHITE: One last thing - my car broke down. You have one, right? You're driving!

...

White has spent all day doing - well, nothing, mostly. Her car is in the shop for repairs, Emile is still at work and her theory was finished after her bath last night, so she has had nothing to do other than practice piano and play Xbox. Now half-asleep on the couch, she looks blearily up at the clock. 4:27 PM.

Black will be there soon, and White looks a mess. Her hair is tied in a messy ponytail, and she's still in her pyjama bottoms and a hoodie that is much too large for her.

She smiles inwardly as she gets off the couch and heads upstairs to the bathroom. How many people would have thought that the ultra-studious President White Blanchard was capable of such laziness?

She giggles a bit, wondering what Black would think. He'd probably be incredibly confused - although not as confused as he'll likely be when he finds out what he's doing tonight.

 _'Oh, I hope he's a good sport about this. It'll really help him. If he can just-'_

She freezes, halfway undressed, and blushes.

 _'Jeez, why am I thinking about him so much?'_

After a second, she shrugs it off. After all, tonight's events are about Black. It's only natural for her to be thinking about him. Even so, her blush doesn't completely fade until after she's in the shower.

White absolutely loves showers. She can spend hours just losing herself in the hot water. By the time she finishes, her fingers are wrinkled like raisins.

White shuts off the water and pauses, cocking her head. She hadn't noticed with the water running, but now she can hear someone downstairs, fooling around on her piano. The music is fast and too loud, but there are no missed notes. White grins. It seems a certain someone had let himself inside.

White kinda-sorta blow-dries and combs her hair, puts on the outfit she had picked out for herself (Tight jeans, a white tank top with a black vest, and black high-top Chuck Taylors - very cute) and tiptoes down the stairs, stopping halfway to peek over the banister into the living room.

Black hasn't heard her, and continues playing. He's playing something unfamiliar to White - it sounds modernish, and she notices he's playing slightly haltingly, hesitating on chord changes for a split second as if making a decision every so often.

 _'He's improvising,'_ White realizes. And quite well, at that. It sounds great. Black evidently thinks so, too, because the stressed expression he wore while playing in the practice room has been replaced by one of lazy serenity.

White watches him play for a bit longer, then calls out to him.

"So, are you in the habit of wandering into people's houses without knocking, or is it just for me?"

At the first word, Black's playing unravels and he mashes the keys in surprise, creating a supremely unpleasant PLONNNNNNNK.

"Black, I'm kidding," White says with a laugh. "I don't mind."

Black takes a few deep breaths. "Sorry, you just scared me. I knocked, but you didn't answer. I wouldn't have come in but it was raining out and I hate the rain so-"

"Black. It's fine. Calm down."

"Right." He takes one more deep breath before turning to her with an excited smile. "I've never played a piano quite like this before. It's fantastic."

"Isn't it?" replies White, bouncing down the stairs and joining him at the piano. "It was my mother's, but I'm the only one who plays it anymore…" she trails off for a second, then resumes: "There's something about this room that just makes it sound better than any piano I've ever heard. I like to think it's Mom's spirit in the keys."

Black looks at his feet. "When did she die?" He asks quietly.

White taps her cheek with her index finger and looks to the ceiling. "November 3rd, 2012. That's...wow, almost five years ago, now…" She claps her hands once, trying to stay cheerful. "But I don't want to talk about that. What I do want to talk about is that improvisation. You're good at that too, huh?"

Black scratches the back of his head. "I suppose so. I do it all the time," he says sheepishly. He slides over on the bench and pats the space beside him. "Care to join me?"

"Sure," answers White, hopping onto the bench beside Black, who starts playing again on the lower register. This is much simpler - a I-V-vi-IV chord progression, played in block chords and octaves. Thousands of modern pop songs use this progression, and it's not hard to improvise whatever you please on it. Black is inviting her to play a melody here.

So she does - a quick staccato tune, bright and cheerful. Black, in turn, starts playing his part in arpeggios and adds a harmony under White's melody with his right hand, matching her perfectly.

They go on like this for a while, following each other's lead. If Black changes key, White is there in an instant. If White decided to slow down the tempo, Black is ready for it. They sound good, playing together - really good. So good, in fact, that White loses track of the time. Finally, she glances up at the clock. It is already 5:45 PM - three quarters of an hour has passed in no time at all.

White nudges Black with her shoulder. He transitions into a final, drawn out cadence, ending their little jam session with a bang. As the final notes dissipate, he jumps off the bench and turns to White, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

"THAT WAS SO COOL!" He yells, causing White to wince a little. His indoor voice needs some work.

But he's right. That was really cool. As White grins and looks over at him, Bianca's text messages from yesterday flash through her head:

 _"Do you think he's cute?"_

Not that she would admit it to anyone...but yeah, he is pretty darn cute. Especially when he's all excited like this. He's tall and well-built, if a bit skinny, with a boyishly handsome face. And there's something about his eyes…

Black, who has been rambling about their playing, stops mid-sentence. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he says.

"Enh? Oh! Sorry!" White yelps, realizing she's been staring. She can feel her face turning beet red. "I just spaced out," she lies. "Anyways, we have to go!"

"Go? Go where?"

White rolls her eyes. "Come on, Black. You think I invited you over just to improvise on my piano? Of course not." She rubs her hands together. "Tonight is step 1 of my plan for you."

"Plan? What plan? I don't like the sound of this," Black mutters. "I thought you said this wasn't a trap."

White frowns. "You believed me? I wouldn't have."

"Well...not really, no…"

White sighs. "Honestly, it's not a trap. It may feel like it, but I'm actually trying to help you here. You just...have to trust me. Please?" She gives him her best pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Black turns away for a second, looking uncomfortable. "I appreciate that you want to help me, but...why?" He says finally. "I mean, you just met me yesterday. You don't even know anything about me, really."

White cocks her head to the side again and sticks her tongue out. "That's for me to know and you to find out, isn't it?"

Black turns back and looks her in the eye, with a steely expression. _"White,"_ he says. He's being serious, and White is surprised.

"I don't know, okay?" She answers truthfully. "It just feels like something I need to do. Maybe it's my mother speaking. She would always go out of her way to help other musicians. There was this one time, she was competing in some contest or other. The contestants had to play two pieces, on two different days. There was one guy who did really badly on his first piece. He was really nervous and got it all wrong. So after he played, my mom went up to him, and she did such a good job of calming him down that the next day he played so well, he won the whole thing." White takes a breath. "She taught me never to just ignore someone who needs help =- even if you don't know them. And you, my friend, need help. Don't you agree?"

Black frowns. "Well, when you put it that way...okay. I'll accept your help. Just be honest with me, okay?"

White flashes a smile at him. "Of course. Now let's go! We're gonna be late!" And with that, she grabs him by the wrist and drags him to the door.

* * *

 **So it's been 7 months since the last update (whee) and finally, chapter 6 is up and...nothing happens, really. Oh well. Hi everyone, how you been?The** **funny thing is that after I decided to sit down and just bang this thing out, it took about...3 hours. Hahahaha.**

 **Anyways, I think I've got a bit more of an idea of where i want to go with this thing, so hopefully updates won't take quite as long.**

 **...Don't count on it, though.**

 **Nobadi, Signing off.**


	7. Slow and Steady

**Damn, I'm on a roll here. What is that, like 9 days between updates? Maybe I should wait and build up a buffer, but...screw it. This is how Nobadi rolls - inconsistent and unreliable, that's me! Ugh. Enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

Chapter 7: Slow and Steady

"Nice _car_ ," White exclaims, gazing in at the console in awe. The jealousy in her voice is easily detectable.

Black's car is a blue BMW 3-series given to him by his parents last year for his birthday. The instructions it came with were very clear: _"Use this to mess around, and I'll save you a bucket from the scrapyard to drive instead."_ That meant no joyriding, no roadtripping, no drag racing, no drifting in empty parking lots, no hanging out the window with a baseball bat launching mailboxes into orbit, no going over the speed limit at all, no fooling around with girls in the back seat, et cetera et cetera.

Not that Black was planning on doing any - well, _most_ of those things anyways, but Mom would even get a little upset if he took it to the movies or to a hockey game. And he doesn't know where White wants to take him, but he has a feeling his mother wouldn't approve of it.

Black grins at White's expression. "Cold?" he asks, and she nods vigorously. Black switches on her heated seat. Within seconds, she makes a happy noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

"Maybe I should let Dad get me a new car, if this is what I have to look forward to…" she mumbles blissfully.

"Don't get your hopes up. This costs about...80 grand?" Black says.

White's eyes shoot open. "Did you say _eighty_? Like, eight-zero?"

Black nods. "Yuh-huh."

"What the _hell_? How did you afford this?"

Black looks away, uncomfortable. "Money isn't really an issue in my family. We're...kind of rich," he mutters. "My parents will pay for whatever...so long as it fits their ideal for me, that is."

White looks at him knowingly. "So you have to pay for your own piano lessons, and music and theory books too, huh?"

Black taps the side of his nose. "Correct. Which is why I never have enough money to pay Mr. Ziegler."

White giggles. "I can imagine how those conversations go. But anyways - you have SatNav, right?" White punches an address into the GPS.

" _136 Carpenter Street,_ " says a pleasant voice. " _Please exit your driveway and turn left."_

Black frowns. He isn't familiar with the address, or even the street name, but he obeys the SatNav lady.

Black continues to try to pry their destination out of White, but she won't budge. He only stops when the SatNav starts guiding him into a decidedly rough part of town. The roads are unpaved, the houses are seedy-looking and unsavoury characters are peering out from porches and bus shelters at the fancy car driving by.

By the time they turn down Carpenter Street, Black is sweating bullets. It's more of an alley, really, and he can hear his tires crunching over broken glass as he drives along. White is unaffected, humming happily to herself and filing her nails.

"White, where the _hell_ are we?" He says, too loudly.

White glances up. "Carpenter Street. Obviously," she says, as if it explains everything.

Black is about to explode. "Yeah, I saw that part," he growls through gritted teeth. "This looks like the place where Bruce Wayne's parents got killed! I'm gonna get knifed for my car keys as soon as I open the door!"

White bursts out laughing. "Oh man. Get a load of sheltered rich white guy over here," she says, "No one is going to stab you, Black. I've been here a million times. Trust me, there are shadier places in town. Park up right there," she orders, gesturing to a small parking lot tucked into the alleyway.

There's a few other cars in the lot, but other than that the place is deserted.

Black is almost convinced that White herself is going to kill him at this point.

"Jesus Christ, what am I doing…" Black mutters to himself, removing his seatbelt...

"Black."

White places a hand on his shoulder. He turns and sees her wide blue eyes shining at him like pools of water.

"Trust me," she whispers. "It'll be fine."

The sincerity in her eyes and voice instantly calm Black down. He takes a deep breath and relaxes, smiling at her.

"Sorry. I said I would, didn't I? So I guess I've got no choice." He replies serenely.

White beams at him. "Thank you, Black. You have my word that nothing bad is going to happen. So let's go!"

The pair exits the car into the rain, holding their backpacks over their heads to keep dry. White leads Black across the parking lot to a narrow, steep staircase, descending to a metal door. A pink neon sign flickers overhead, and Black can just make out the word Lounge.

They descend the staircase, Black almost slipping and falling twice. As White opens the door, Black is immediately greeted by the singing of a female voice over an acoustic guitar. The sound envelops him as he enters.

"They've started already. We're late," White whispers. "Be quiet when you go in."

The inside is dimly lit and warm. Black takes off his coat, and enters what he instantly decides is the coolest place he's ever been.

It's a lounge, just like the sign said, but it's one straight out of a film. A large stage is the center of attention, with a marvelous Steinway towards stage left. The house is filled with tables, seated at which are what appear to be mostly students from the university. The walls are packed with albums and posters of musicians. There's pool tables and a jukebox on one side, and a bar on the other, illuminated by a big neon sign that says _Joe's_. Joe doesn't appear to be present behind it, but it hardly matters, because everyone's attention is focused on the young woman on stage.

And what a _woman_. In terms of physical appearance, she won the genetic lottery and then robbed a genetic bank for good measure. Everything about her is classically beautiful. Her hair is shiny and brown like White's, though not quite as long. Her deep blue eyes are twinkling and mischievous, and her skin is pale and clear. Her form-fitting blue dress hugs her body and accents every curve, showing off generous breasts and hips. She is, by any man's standards, perfect.

But her voice is what Black is really paying attention to, because somehow her appearance is less astonishing. She sings low and silky-smooth, her inflections sultry and saccharine. The song is a slow ballad.

" _The lights go out, I am all alone_

 _All the trees outside are buried in the snow_

 _I spend my night dancing with my own shadow_

 _And it holds me and it never lets me go_

 _I move slow and steady_

 _But I feel like a waterfall_

 _Yeah, I move slow and steady_

 _Past the ones that I used to know…"_

Black is enraptured. "Who is that?" He whispers to White.

"That's Blue," she whispers back. "Now shush, I wanna hear her."

" _My dear old friend, take me for a spin_

 _Two wolves in the dark, running in the wind_

 _I'm letting go, but I've never felt better_

 _Passing by all the monsters in my head_

 _I move slow and steady_

 _But I feel like a waterfall_

 _Yeah, I move slow and steady_

 _Past the ones that I used to know…"_

Watching her, it's clear that this Blue loves to perform. That mischievous smile has not left her face once. She seems supremely comfortable having an audience - being the center of attention. The crowd hangs on her every note, and she is relishing every moment of it.

" _And I'm never ready_

 _'Cause I know, I know, I know_

 _That time won't let me_

 _Show what I want to show_

 _I move slow and steady_

 _But I feel like a waterfall_

 _Yeah, I move slow and steady_

 _Past the ones that I used to know_

 _And I'm never ready_

 _'Cause I know, I know, I know_

 _That time won't let me_

 _Show what I want to show…"_

The song ends, and Blue is met with thunderous applause and whistling, Black being no exception. Blue seems disappointed, not by the reception, but by the fact that she has to leave the stage. She takes as much time as possible, putting her guitar down slowly and taking several bows before disappearing into the wings.

"C'mon," says White, pulling Black by the arm away from the entrance. Black expects her to go find a table for them to sit at, but instead, she drags him towards the stage door.

"What are you doing?" Black asks, perplexed. "We should get seats before—"

"Seats? We aren't part of the audience tonight, Black!" White replies, with a hint of slyness in her voice.

Black scratches his head. "So...you're performing?"

White is about to say something, but changes her mind. "Yeah, sure. I'm performing."

The uneasiness returns to Black's stomach. ' _She's definitely plotting something….but what?'_ His mind feels cloudy, and he's unable to think straight about it.

Backstage, performers are milling about, chatting and tuning their instruments. White leads Black past all of them to where Blue is having an animated conversation with a guy.

"-C'mon, it'll be _funny_ ," whines the guy. He's about a head shorter than Black, wiry and narrow-shouldered, with messy black hair covered by a backwards ball cap and an outfit consisting of a baggy sweatshirt and cargo shorts.

"No way, skater boy," says Blue. "Keep the goofing to your own stupid act, don't invade someone else's."

"But he's going to play _Bach_! No one wants to hear Bach here-"

" _Ahem_ ," interrupts White.

Blue jumps up and gives White a hug. "There you are! I thought you weren't gonna make it," she exclaims. "Did you get here on time to hear me sing?"

"Yes, Blue, it was _gorgeous_ ," gushes White. "Where are Red and Green? I thought you were performing with them tonight."

Blue waves her hand dismissively. "Ah, they got into an argument and both quit the band again," she replies. "They'll be back by Wednesday. Bet on it."

"Ugh. Men," White says sarcastically. "Speaking of men, I brought one with me - the one I texted you about."

Blue turns to look at Black for the first time. She looks him up and down, appraising him like a collector would look at coins. "...I see. So that's how it is, eh?" She says finally, and turns to put her mouth to White's ear. "White, you didn't tell me he was adorable," she whispers, loud enough for Black to hear.

White jerks back, blushing heavily. "I-I hadn't thought about it, Blue! And it didn't come up, and…" she puts her head down, refusing to meet Black's eyes.

Blue laughs heartily. "So easy to embarrass, this one," she says to Black, who is turning red as well. Blue flashes him a genuine smile. "I'm Blue Mackenzie. Nice to meet you," she giggles. "So you're this mystery pianist that White's just met, yeah?"

"Uh...I suppose so," Black says sheepishly. "I dunno about the 'mystery' part, but...I play piano."

Blue looks at him expectantly, but he just stands there awkwardly, unsure of what else to say.

"Righto," says Blue, finally releasing him from the silence. I gotta go announce the next performer. Here, talk to Gold while I'm gone - maybe you can talk some sense into him." And with that, she heads back out on stage.

Black looks over to White, who still won't meet his eyes, and then to Gold, pouting silently.

"So...your name is Gold?" Asks Black. "Inter-"

"Can you believe that she won't let me tell the audience to throw stuff at Cheren?" Gold explodes. "It's comedy genius! Stuck-up woman." He sniffs. "Yeah, I'm Gold. Well, technically I'm Michael. But call me Gold."

Black is dumbfounded. Eventually, he just says "Cheren? He's here?" He can't really imagine Cheren Kovachik going anywhere near a place like this.

"What? Oh, you know him? Yeah, he's here somewhere. He's performing right after me, and I had this whole bit ready to go, but he won't go along with it. What a bore. Why would you want to play Baroque music in a place like this?"

"We can't all appreciate the genius of twelve-tone music like you, Gold," White says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She seems to have finally recovered from Blue's teasing, and her face has returned to its normal colour.

"I wouldn't play that here, though. You'll see." Gold's face breaks into a wide grin. "My act is gonna bring down the house. You watch."

White looks at Black and rolls her eyes. "Whatever you say." she says.

Blue returns to the wing and rejoins the conversation. "Right, there's a bunch more acts before all of yours," she says. "Relax for a bit," this is directed at Black. "Have fun! That's what we're all about here. I gotta go get changed." And with that, she's gone again.

'Any of yours? Why not "either"? Wait…'

As Black watches Blue go, the puzzle pieces fall into place in his head. White's behaviour earlier, the fact that he is allowed backstage, and now the way Blue just worded her sentence...suddenly it all makes sense.

Black turns to White. "So," he says, ice in his voice. "When were you planning on telling me I'm performing tonight?"

* * *

 **Blue's song is "Slow and Steady" by Of Monsters and Men. What a great name for a chapter, Nobadi - just use the song someone sings in it! Oh well. Chapter titles are not my strong suit.**

 **Twelve-tone music: I'm not too sure what actually defines the Twelve-Tone school of musical thought, but in essence, twelve-tone music is music that doesn't depend on any key signature, instead using all twelve notes of the chromatic scale. In contrast, regular music listened to by people who aren't completely mad uses just 7 tones, with any of the other 5 used being "Accidentals" - notes which are not a part of the key signature used in the piece.**


End file.
